


Hold the Line

by englandwouldfalljohn



Series: Nice and Accurate Poetry [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley wants redemption, Drabble, Just tag this work, Poetry, Post-Canon, Rhyming, Use of “he” pronouns, but gender is not relevant here, freestyle poetry - don’t @ me over meter or rhyme scheme ;), you’re welcome to remix into a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26594269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: POEM!FIC: Post-Armeggedidn’t, Crowley confides to Aziraphale that he still wants to be redeemed to God
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Nice and Accurate Poetry [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1430005
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	Hold the Line

‘The line waits for no man,’ Crowley says. 

He trembles where the angel touches skin.

‘Then blessed are we, for truth, you are no man-’

‘No man, perhaps. But blessed, I’ll never be.’

‘We’ve talked of this,’ the angel coos and sighs. 

‘Her blessing is my blessing to bestow. 

You’re cast out of the waters in the skies, 

but have survived the waters here below. 

Alas, I fear you dare not understand 

the grace that has befallen us this day. 

So hold to me, in this unholy land, 

and let me be the vessel while you pray.’

Trembling fingers clasp upon the steady, 

unfurling wings release the breath of time.

A silent plea he fears too small and petty 

comes spoken here by Sentry of the Line.

The words are full unworldly in their make, 

first writ before true writing marked a wall.

The Morningstar himself would find them ancient, 

as they rose long before the mighty fall. 

In terms for darker than these blackest wings, 

which long ago bore signals of the stars, 

the purest angel speaks his lover’s needs, 

but every ‘he’ replacing well with ‘our.’

A blast sweeps through, in desolation holy.

Oh, only She could shake the heart of Thrones!

Upon his lover’s chest he’s fallen, weeping.

For God Herself has welcomed Crowley home.

**Author's Note:**

> I would adore a fic remix of this (or any) work! If you’re up for it, please use this and just tag the original work.


End file.
